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KEMBLE— Poems, by Francis Anne Botler I 
(late Fanny Kemble) 1st edition, 12mo, 
cloth, scarce, 5s 1844 

'* There is a masculine strength and vigour in her Yerses— not a 
little remarkable in an age when men are proud to write effeminately — 
so delicately do they go, and so softly do they tread, like the Hebrew 
Ladies of old, when they affect the Poetic character. — The Poems be- 
fore us are Lyrical, Descriptive, and Didactic, with some few Sonnets, 
alike distinguished by an earnestness of purpose and energy of 
style." — ATHEN^UM, July 27. 









Printed by Stewart and Murray, 
Old Bailey. 







Lines written at Night 11 

Venice . . . . . .13 

To Miss 15 

The Wind . .17 

Eastern Sunset . . . . . . .19 

Farewell to Italy 21 

The Red Indian 23 

To .24 

Song 25 

Lament for Israel . .... 26 

A Wish 27 

Song 28 

To Mrs. 30 

A Wish 31 

A Spirit's Voice 32 

To the Dead 33 

Song 34 

To Thomas Moore, Esq 35 

A Wish 37 




The Minstrel's Grave . . . . .38 

To ? 

On a Forget-Me-Not 

Sonnet . . • . . . ; 
Sonnet . . . 

On a Musical Box ...... 

To the Picture of a Lady 

Fragment . . . . . . . 


Written on Cramond Beach .... 


Fragment ........ 

Sonnet ... . . . . . 

Sonnet . . . . . . . *i 

A Promise . 

A Promise i 

Sonnet . . . . . . ; 

To i 

Sonnet . . ... . . . 

The Vision of Life 

Sonnet ........ 

To My Guardian Angel ..... 

Sonnet i 

Sonnet . .1 

To the Spring .1 

To the Nightingale 

Sonnet . . . . . . . . 1 

To .72 

Woman's Love . 74 



To Mrs. 75 

An Entreaty 77 

Lines for Music 79 

To 80 

The Parting 81 

Song . . , 82 

To a Star .83 

Sonnet ........ 85 

Sonnet 86 

To ........ 87 

Sonnet 88 

Lines . . . . . . . . .89 

A Farewell .... .... 91 

To a Picture . • . . . . .92 

Sonnet 93 

An Invitation . . . . . . . 94 

Lines for Music 95 

Song . 96 

Lines on a Sleeping Child 97 

A Retrospect 99 

An Invocation . . . . . . .100 

A Lament for the Wissahiccon . . . .102 

To the Wissahiccon 105 

An Evening Song ...... 107 

The Death Song 108 

Impromptu 109 

Written after leaving West Point . . .110 

Faith Ill 

" Tis an old Tale and often told" . . .112 



Fragment . . . . . . .114 

An Apology 116 

Written after spending a Day at West Point . 118 

Song 120 

To Mrs. Dulaney 122 

Impromptu . . . . . . . .123 

Lines addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving 

the Academy at Lenox, Massachusetts . . 124 
The Prayer of a Lonely Heart . . . .127 

Absence 129 

Return 131 

Lines Written in London . . . . .132 

To . . 133 

To 134 

Epistle from the Rhine 135 

Lines for Music . . . . . - . 139 

Sonnets . . .... 140-144 



August 9th, 1825. 

Oh, thou surpassing beauty ! that dost live 
Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light ! 
Spirit of harmony ! that through the vast 
And cloud-embroidered canopy art spreading 
Thy wings, that o'er our shadowy earth hang 

Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moon 
And the world's darker orb : beautiful, hail ! 
Hail to thee ! from her midnight throne of ether, 
Night looks upon the slumbering universe. 
There is no breeze on silver-crowned tree, 
There is no breath on dew-bespangled flower, 
There is no wind sighs on the sleepy wave, 
There is no sound hangs in the solemn air. 



All, all are silent, all are dreaming, all, 
Save those eternal eyes, that now shine forth 
Winking the slumberer's destinies. The moon 
Sails on the horizon's verge, a moving glory, 
Pure, and unrivalled ; for no paler orb 
Approaches, to invade the sea of light 
That lives around her ; save yon little star, 
That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds, 
Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow. 



Night in her dark array 

Steals o'er the ocean, 
And with departed day- 
Hushed seems its motion. 
Slowly o'er yon blue coast 

Onward she's treading, 
'Till its dark line is lost, 

'Neath her veil spreading. 
The bark on the rippling deep 

Hath found a pillow, 
And the pale moonbeams sleep 

On the green billow. 
Bound by her emerald zone 

Venice is lying, 
And round her marble crown 

Night winds are sighing. 
From the high lattice now 

Bright eyes are gleaming, 
That seem on night's dark brow 

Brighter stars beaming. 


Now o'er the bright lagune 

Light barks are dancing, 
And 'neath the silver moon 

Swift oars are glancing. 
Strains from the mandolin 

Steal o'er the water, 
Echo replies between 

To mirth and laughter. 
O'er the wave seen afar 

Brilliantly shining, 
Gleams like a fallen star 

Venice reclining. 



Time beckons on the hours : the expiring year 
Already feels old Winter's icy breath ; 

As with cold hands, he scatters on her bier 
The faded glories of her Autumn wreath. 

As fleetly as the Summer's sunshine past, 

The Winter's snow must melt ; and the young 

Strewing the earth with flowers, will come at last, 

And in her train the hour of parting bring. 
But, though I leave the harbour, where my heart 

Sometime had found a peaceful resting-place, 
Where it lay calmly moored ; though I depart, 

Yet, let not time my memory quite efface. 
'Tis true, I leave no void, the happy home 

To which you welcomed me, will be as gay, 
As bright, as cheerful, when I've turned to roam, 

Once more, upon life's weary onward way. 



But oh ! if ever by the warm hearth's blaze, 
Where beaming eyes and kindred souls are met, 

Your fancy wanders back to former days, 
Let my remembrance hover round you yet. 

Then, while before you glides time's shadowy 

Of forms long vanished, days and hours long 

Perchance my name will be pronounced again, 
In that dear circle where I once was one. 

Think of me then, nor break kind memory's spell, 
By reason's censure coldly o'er me cast, 

Think only, that I loved ye passing well ! 
And let my follies slumber with the past. 



Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully 
Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along 
In the full chorus of their midnight song. 
The waste of heavy clouds, that veil the sky, 
Roll like a murky scroll before them driven, 
And show faint glimpses of a darker heaven. 
No ray is there of moon, or pale-eyed star, 
Darkness is on the universe ) save where 
The western sky lies glimmering, faint and far, 
With day's red embers dimly glowing there. 
Hark! how the wind comes gathering in its course, 
And sweeping onward, with resistless force, 
Howls through the silent space of starless skies, 
And on the breast of the svvol'n ocean dies. 
Oh, though art terrible, thou viewless power ! 
That rid'st destroying at the midnight hour ! 
We hear thy mighty pinion, but the eye 
Knows nothing of thine awful majesty. 



We see all mute creation bow before 
Thy viewless wings, as thou careerest o'er 
This rocking world j that in the boundless sky 
Suspended, vibrates, as thou rushest by. 
There is no terror in the lightning's glare, 
That breaks its red track through the trackless 
air ; 

There is no terror in the voice that speaks 
From out the clouds when the loud thunder breaks 
Over the earth, like that w r hich dwells in thee, 
Thou unseen tenant of immensity. 



'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain, 

That floats through the evening sky : 
With his note of love, he replies again, 

To the muezzin's holy cry ; 
As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air, 
" Allah, il allah ! come to prayer V 
Warm o'er the waters the red sun is glowing, 
'Tis the last parting glance of his splendour and 

While each rippling wave on the bright shore is 

Its white crest, that breaks into showers of light. 

Each distant mosque and minaret 

Is shining in the setting sun, 

Whose farewell look is brighter yet, 

Than that with which his course begun. 

On the dark blue mountains his smile is bright, 

It glows on the orange grove's waving height, 



And breaks through its shade in long lines of 

No sound on the earth, and no sound in the sky, 
Save murmuring fountains that sparkle nigh, 
And the rustling flight of the evening breeze, 
Who steals from his nest in the cypress trees, 
And a thousand dewy odours fling, 
As he shakes their white buds from his gossamer 

And flutters away through the spicy air, 
At sound of a footstep drawing near. 



Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy ! 
My lonely bark is launched upon the sea 
That clasps thy shore, and the soft evening gale 
Breathes from thy coast, and fills my parting sail. 
Ere morning dawn, a colder breeze will come, 
And bear me onward to my northern home ; 
That home, where the pale sun is not so bright, 
So glorious, at his noonday's fiercest height, 
As when he throws his last glance o'er the sea, 
And fires the heavens, that glow farewell on thee. 
Fair Italy ! perchance some future day 
Upon thy coast again will see me stray ; 
Meantime, farewell ! I sorrow, as I leave 
Thy lovely shore behind me, as men grieve 
When bending o'er a form, around whose charms, 
Unconquered yet, Death winds his icy arms : 
While leaving the last kiss on some dear cheek, 
Where beauty sheds her last autumnal streak, 



Life's rosy flower just mantling into bloom , 

Before it fades for ever in the tomb. 

So I leave thee, oh ! thou art lovely still ! 

Despite the clouds of infamy and ill 

That gather thickly round thy fading form : 

Still glow thy glorious skies, as bright and warm, 

Still memory lingers fondly on thy strand, 

And Genius hails thee still her native land. 

Land of my soul's adoption ! o'er the sea, 

Thy sunny shore is fading rapidly : 

Fainter and fainter, from my gaze it dies, 

'Till like a line of distant light it lies, 

A melting boundary 'twixt earth and sky, 

And now 'tis gone ; — farewell, fair Italy ! 



Rest, warrior, rest ! thine hour is past, — 
Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last, 
Still rings upon the rushing blast, 
That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily. 

Rest, warrior, rest ! thy haughty brow, 
Beneath the hand of death bends low, 
Thy fiery glance is quenched now. 
In the cold grave's obscurity. 

Rest, warrior, rest ! thy rising sun 
Is set in blood, thy day is done ; 
Like lightning flash thy race is run, 
And thou art sleeping peacefully. 

Rest, warrior, rest ! thy foot no more 
The boundless forest shall explore, 
Or trackless cross the sandy shore, 
Or chase the red deer rapidly. 



Rest, warrior, rest ! thy light canoe, 
Like thy choice arrow, swift and true, 
Shall part no more the waters blue, 
That sparkle round it brilliantly. 

Rest, warrior, rest ! thine hour is past, 
Yon sinking sunbeam is thy last, 
And all is silent, save the blast, 

That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily. 

Oh, turn those eyes away from me ! 

Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays j 
And though they beam so tenderly, 

I feel, I tremble 'neath their gaze. 
Oh, turn those eyes away ! for though 

To meet their glance I may not dare, 
I know their light is on my brow, 

By the warm blood that mantles there. 



Yet once again, but once, before we sever, 
Fill we one brimming cup, — it is the last ! 

And let those lips, now parting, and for ever, 
Breathe o'er this pledge, " the memory of the 
past !" 

Joy's fleeting sun is set ; and no to-morrow 
Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast, 

Yet, in the bitter cup, o'erfilled with sorrow, 
Lives one sweet drop, — the memory of the past. 

But one more look from those dear eyes, now 

Through their warm tears, their loveliest and 
their last ; 

But one more strain of hands, in friendship 

Now farewell all, save memory of the past. 




Where is thy home in thy promised land ? 

Desolate and forsaken ! 
The stranger's arm hath seized thy brand, 
Thou art bowed beneath the stranger's hand, 

And the stranger thy birthright hath taken. 

Where is the mark of thy chosen race ? 

Infamous and degraded ! 
It hath fallen on thee, on thy dwelling-place, 
And that heaven-stamped sign to a foul disgrace 

And the scoff of the world, has faded. 

First-born of nations ! upon thy brow, 

Resistless and revenging, 
The fiery finger of God hath now 
Written the sentence of thy wo, 

The innocent blood avenging ! 


Lion of Judah ! thy glory is past, 

Vanished and fled for ever. 
Homeless and scattered, thy race is cast 
Like chaff in the breath of the sweeping blast, 

To rally or rise again, never ! 


Let me not die for ever, when I'm gone 

To the cold earth ! but let my memory 
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone 

Over the clouds where sank day's majesty. 
Let me not be forgotten ! though the grave 

Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow. 
Let me not be forgotten ! though the wave 

Of time's dark current rolls above me now. 
Yet not in tears remembered be my name ; 

Weep over those ye loved ; for me, for me, 
Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame 

Over my tomb spread immortality ! 


The moment must come, when the hands that 

In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever ; 
When the eyes that have beamed o'er us brightly 

Will have ceased to shine o'er us, for ever. 
Yet wreathe again the goblet's brim 

With pleasure's roseate crown ! 
What though the future hour be dim — 

The present is our own ! 

The moment is come, and again we are parting, 
To roam through the world, each our separate 

In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is 

But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds 
its ray. 



Then wreathe again the goblet's brim 
With pleasure's roseate crown ! 

What though the present hour be dim — 
The future 's yet our own ! 

The moment is past, and the bright throng that 
round us 

So lately .was gathered, has fled like a dream ; 
And time has untwisted the fond links that bound 

Like frost wreaths that melt in the morning's 
first beam. 

Still wreathe once more the goblet's brim I 
With pleasure's roseate crown ! 

What though all else beside be dim — 
The past has been our own ! 



Oh lady ! thou, who in the olden time 
Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream ! 
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime, 
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem 
Fair woman's best! forgive the darling line 
That falters forth thy praise ! nor let thine eye 
Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully ; 
But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine, 
That made me venture on a theme, that none 
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one. 
Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening 

Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow, 
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing 
The splendour of thy beauty's summer now. 
Thou art most fair ! but thine is loveliness 
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye ; 
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness ; 
Thy grace, thy lofty spirit's majesty. 



While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide, 

Like some calm spirit o'er life's troubled stream, 

With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side 

Together blossoming ; I almost deem 

That I behold the loveliness and truth, 

That like fair visions hovered round my youth, 

Long sought— and then forgotten as a dream. 


Let me not die for ever when I'm laid 

In the cold earth ! but let my memory 
Live still among ye, like the evening shade, 

That o'er the sinking day steals placidly. 
Let me not be forgotten ! though the knell 

Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby ; 
Let me not be forgotten ! though I dwell 

For ever now in death's obscurity. 
Yet oh ! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame, 

Trace not a record, not a line for me, 
But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name, 

And in your hearts enshrine my memory ! 



It is the dawn ! the rosy day awakes ; 
From her bright hair pale showers of dew she 

And through the heavens her early pathway 
takes ; 
Why art thou sleeping ? 

It is the nocn ! the sun looks laughing down 
On hamlet still, on busy shore, and town, 
On forest glade, and deep dark waters lone ; 
Why art thou sleeping? 

It is the sunset ! daylight's crimson veil 
Floats o'er the mountain tops, while twilight pale 
Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale ; 
Why art thou sleeping ? 

It is the night ! o'er the moon's livid brow, 
Like hhadowy locks, the clouds their darkness 

All evil spirits wake to wander now ; 
Why art thou sleeping ? 



On the lone waters* shore 

Wander I yet ; 
Brooding those moments o'er 

I should forget. 
'Till the broad foaming surge 

Warns me to fly, 
While despair's whispers urge 

To stay and die. 
When the night's solemn watch 

Falls on the seas, 
'Tis thy voice that I catch 

In the low breeze ; 
When the moon sheds her light 

On things below, 
Beams not her ray so bright, 

Like thy young brow ? 
Spirit immortal! say, 

When wilt thou come, 
To marshal me the way 

To my long home P 



I sing the yellow leaf, 
That rustling strews 
The wintry path, where grief 
Delights to muse, 
Spring's early violet, that sweetly opes 

Its fragrant leaves to the young morning's kiss, 
Type of our youth's fond dreams, and cherished 
Will soon be this : 

A sere and yellow leaf, 
That rustling strews 
The wintry path, where grief 
Delights to muse. 
The summer's rose, in whose rich hues we read 
Pleasure's gay bloom, and love's enchanting 

And glory's laurel, waving o'er the dead, 
Will soon be this : 

A sere and yellow leaf, 
That rustling strews 
The wintry path, where grief 
Delights to muse. 



Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin ! 

To the goblet's brim we will fill ; 
For all that to life is endearing, 

Thy strains have made dearer still ! 

Wherever fond woman's eyes eclipse 
The midnight moon's soft ray ; 

Whenever around dear woman's lips, 
The smiles of affection play : 

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin ! 

To the goblet's brim we will fill, 
For all that to life is endearing, 

Thy strains have made dearer still ! 

Wherever the warrior's sword is bound 

W T ith the laurel of victory, 
Wherever the patriot's brow is crowned 

With the halo of liberty : 


We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin ! 

To the goblet's brim we will fill ; 
For all that to life is endearing 

Thy strains have made dearer still ! 

Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung, 
On the listening ear of night, 

Wherever the soul of wit hath flung 
Its flashes of vivid light : 

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin I 
To the goblet's brim we will fill ; 

For all that to life is endearing, 
In thy strains is dearer still. 



Oh ! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander 
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech j 
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays, 
Sleeps on the dewy moss : what time the breath 
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs, 
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms. 
Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather, 
Listening the silver music chat rings out 
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the 

Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea, 
While one by one the evening stars shine forth 
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the 

Like floating purple wreaths of mournful night- 
shade ! 




Oh let it be where the waters are meeting, 

In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky- 
bright ! 

Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating, 

May throw the last glance of his vanishing light. 
Lay me there ! lay me there ! and upon my lone 

Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths 
swell ; 

Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring 

And the burthen it sings to me, nought but 
" farewell !" 

Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing, 
The cypress and myrtle have mingled their 
shade : 

Oh let it be where the moon at her rising, 
May throw the first night-glance that silvers 
the glade. 



Lay me there ! lay me there ! and upon the 
green willow 
Hang the harp that has cheered the lone min- 
strel so w r ell, 

That the soft hreath of heaven, as it sighs o'er 
my pillow, 

From its strings, now forsaken, may sound one 


"VVhex we first met, dark wintry skies were 

And the wild winds sang requiem to the year; 
But thou, in all thy beauty's pride wert blooming, 
And my young heart knew hope without a fear. 

When we last parted, summer suns were smiling, 
And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore ; 

But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling, 
For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no 



Brought from Switzerland. 

Flower of the mountain ! by the wanderer's hand 
Robbed of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day ; 
Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way, 
And bloom, to wither in the stranger's land ? 
Hueless and scentless as thou art, 

How much that stirs the memory, 
How much, much more, that thrills the heart, 
Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee ! 

Where is thy beauty ? in the grassy blade, 

There lives more fragrance, and more fresh- 
ness now ; 

Yet oh ! not all the flowers that bloom and fade, 
Are half so dear to memory's eye as thou. 
The dew that on the mountain lies, 
The breeze that o'er the mountain sighs, 

Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish ; 
But thou — not e'en those sunny eyes 
As bright, as blue, as thine own skies, 
Thou faded thing ! can make thee flourish 



'Twas but a dream ! and oh ! what are they all, 
All the fond visions Hope's bright finger traces, 
All the fond visions Time's dark wing effaces, 
But very dreams ! but morning buds, that fall 
Withered and blighted, long before the night : 
Strewing the paths they should have made 
more bright, 
With mournful wreaths, whose light hath past 

That can return to life and beauty never, 
And yet, of whom it was but yesterday, 

We deemed they'd bloom as fresh and fair for 

Oh then, when hopes, that to thy heart are 

Over the future shed their sunniest beam, 
When round thy path their bright wings hover 

Trust not too fondly ! — for 'tis but a dream ! 



Oh weary, weary world ! how fall thou art 

Of sin, of sorrow, and all evil things ! 
In thy fierce turmoil, where shall the sad heart, 
Released from pain, fold its unrested wings ? 
Peace hath no dwelling here, but evermore 
Loud discord, strife, and envy, fill the earth 
With fearful riot, whilst unhallowed mirth 
Shrieks frantic laughter forth, leading along, 
Whirling in dizzy trance the eager throng, 
Who bear aloft the overflowing cup, 
With tears, forbidden joys, and blood filled up, 
Quaffing long draughts of death ; in lawless 

Drunk with soft harmonies, and dazzling light, 
So rush they down to the eternal night. 



Poor little sprite ! in that dark, narrow cell 

Caged by the law of man's resistless might ! 
With thy sweet liquid notes, by some strong 

Compelled to minister to his delight ! 
Whence, what art thou ? art thou a fairy wight 

Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell. 
Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moon- 

And drink the starry dew-drops, as they fell ? 
Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art 

Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow, 
Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells 

And sail upon the sunset's amber glow ? 
When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme, 

Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream, 
Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play, 



Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam, 
Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam, 

"Whilst thou, in darkness, sing'st thy life away ? 
And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns, 

Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee ; 
When in the wide creation nothing mourns, 

Of all that lives, save that which is not free ? 
Oh ! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer, 

How would thy little voice beseeching cry, 
For one short draught of the sweet morning air, 

For one short glimpse of the clear azure sky ! 
Perchance thou sing'st in hope thou shalt be 

Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling ; 
While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the 

To every bud with honey dew distilling. 
That hope is vain : for even couldst thou wing 
Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood 


Thou'dst be a shunned and a forsaken thing, 
'Mongst the companions of thy happier day. 

For fairy sprites, like many other creatures, 
Bear fleeting memories, that come and go ; 

Nor can they oft recall familiar features, 

By absence touched, or clouded o'er with woe. 


Then rest content with sorrow : for there be 
Many that must that lesson learn with thee j 
And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully, 
Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail, 
For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail, 
Poor little sprite I and then sleep peacefully ! 


Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet, 

With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air, 

And billowy tresses of thy golden hair, 

Which once to see, is never to forget f 

But for short space I gazed, with soul intent 

Upon thee j and the limner's art divine, 

Meantime, poured all thy spirit into mine. 

But once I gazed, then on my way I went : 

And thou art still before me. Like a dream 

Of what our soul has loved, and lost for ever, 

Thy vision dwells with me, and though I never 

May be so blest as to behold thee more, 

That one short look has stamped thee in my heart, 

Of my intensest life a living part, 

Which time, and death, shall never triumph o'er. 



Walking by moonlight on the golden margin 
That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking 
Of all the wild imaginings that man 
Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with ; 
Making fair nature's solitary haunts 
Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful. 
And as the chain of thought grew link by link, 
It seemed, as though the midnight heavens waxed 

The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes, 
And a strange light played o'er each sleeping 

That laid its head upon the sandy beach. 

Anon there came along the rocky shore 

A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy. 

From no one point of heaven, or earth, it came ; 

But under, over, and about it breathed, 

Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure. 

It swelled, as though borne on the floating wings 


Of the midsummer breeze : it died away 
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the 

That one by one melted like flakes of snow 
In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound, 
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies ; 
And suddenly, as far as eye might view, 
The coast was peopled with a world of elves, 
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around, 
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion, 
Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy 

And shining as the Alps, when that the sun 
Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their 

Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove. 
They were all fair, and light as dreams ; anon 
The dance broke off ; and sailing through the air, 
Some one way, and some other, they did each 
Alight upon some waving branch, or flower, 
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore. 
One, chiefly, did I mark , one tiny sprite, 
Who crept into an orange flower-bell, 
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips 
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew, 
That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom. 



Cover me with your everlasting arms, 
Ye guardian giants of this solitude ! 
From the ill-sight of men, and from the rude, 

Tumultuous din of yon wide world's alarms ! 

Oh, knit your mighty limbs around, above, 
And close me in for ever ! let me dwell 
With the wood spirits, in the darkest cell 

That ever w T ith your verdant locks ye wove. 
The air is full of countless voices, joined 
In one eternal hymn ; the whispering wind, 
The shuddering leaves, the hidden water- 

The work-song of the bees, whose honeyed 
w T ings 

Hang in the golden tresses of the lime, 
Or buried lie in purple beds of thyme. 



Farewell, old playmate ! on thy sandy shore 
My lingering feet will leave their print no more ; 
To thy loved side I never may return. 
I pray thee, old companion, make due mourn 
For the wild spirit who so oft has stood 
Gazing in love and wonder on thy flood. 
The form is now departing far away, 
That half in anger oft, and half in play, 
Thou hast pursued with thy white showers of 

Thy waters daily will besiege the home 
I loved among the rocks ; but there will be 
No laughing cry, to hail thy victory, 
Such as was wont to greet thee, when I fled, 
"With hurried footsteps, and averted head, 
Like fallen monarch, from my venturous stand, 
Chased by thy billows far along the sand. 
And when at eventide thy warm waves drink 
The amber clouds that in their bosom sink ; 
AVhen sober twilight over thee has spread 
Iler purple pall, when the glad day is dead 




My voice no more will mingle with the dirge 
That rose in mighty moaning from thy surge, 
Filling with awful harmony the air, 
"When thy vast soul and mine were joined in 


Away, aw T ay ! bear me away, away, 

Into the boundless void, thou mighty wind ! 

That rushest on thy midnight way, 

And leav'st this weary world, far, far behind! 

Away, away ! bear me away, away, 

To the wide strandless deep, 

Ye headlong waters I whose mad eddies leap 

From the pollution of your bed of clay ! 

Away, away, bear me away, away, 

Into the fountains of eternal light, 

Ye rosy clouds ! that to my longing sight 

Seem melting in the sun's devouring ray ! 

Away, away ! oh, for some mighty blast, 

To sweep this loathsome life into the past ! 



It was the harvest time : the broad, bright moon 
Was at her full, and shone upon the fields 
Where we had toiled the livelong day, to pile 
In golden sheaves the earth's abundant treasure. 
The harvest task had given place to song 
And merry dance ; and these in turn were chased 
By legends strange, and wild, unearthly tales 
Of elves, and gnomes, and fairy sprites, that haunt 
The woods and caves ; where they do sleep all day, 
And then come forth i' the witchinghour of night, 
To dance by moonlight on the green thick sward. 
The speaker was an aged villager, 
In whom his oft-told tale awoke no fears, 
Such as he filled his gaping listeners with. 
Nor ever was there break in his discourse, 
Save when with gray eyes lifted to the moon, 
He conjured from the past strange instances 
Of kidnapp'd infants, from their cradles snatch'd, 



And changed for elvish sprites ; of blights, and 

Sent on the cattle by the vengeful fairies ; 
Of blasted crops, maim'd limbs, and unsound 

All plagues inflicted by these angered sprites. 
Then would he pause, and wash his story down 
With long-drawn draughts of amber ale; while all 
The rest came crowding under the wide oak tree, 
Piling the corn sheaves closer round the ring, 
Whispering and shaking, laughing too, with fear ; 
And ever, if an acorn bobb'd from the boughs, 
Or grasshopper from out the stubble chirr upp'd, 
Blessing themselves from Robin Goodfellow ! 



Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought, 
In woodland paths, and lone sequester' d shades, 
What time the sunny hanks and mossy glades, 
With dewy wreaths of early violets wrought, 
Into the air their fragrant incense fling, 
To greet the triumph of the youthful Spring. 
Lo, where she comes ! 'scaped from the icy lair 
Of hoary Winter ; wanton, free, and fair ! 
Now smile the heavens again upon the earth, 
Bright hill, and bosky dell, resound with mirth, 
And voices, full of laughter and wild glee, 
Shout through the air pregnant with harmony ; 
And wake poor sobbing Echo, who replies 
With sleepy voice, that softly, slowly dies. 



I would I knew the lady of thy heart ! 
She whom thou lov'st perchance, as I love thee, — 
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee ; 
Those thoughts, in which, alas ! I bear no part. 
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair, 
How passing beautiful, thy love must be ; 
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare ; 
And then I've wept, I've wept in agony ! 
Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes, 
That to thy enamour'd gaze alone seem fair; 
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies 
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear : 
Oh, that I might but know the truth and die, 
Nor live in this long dream of misery ! 


By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow 
Through thy sequester'd dell unto the sea, 
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee : 
Not troubling the still fount with drops of woe, 
As when I last took leave of it and thee, 
But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow, 
And eyes full of life's early happiness, 
Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness. 
Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I 
Were wont to sit, studying the harmony 
Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high, 
At sunny noon I will be heard by thee ; 
Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound, 
As when I last faultered them o'er to thee, 
But uttering them in the air around, 
With youth's clear laughing voice of melody. 



On the wild shore of the eternal deep, 
Where we have stray' d so oft, and stood so long 
Watching the mighty waters conquering sweep, 
And listening to their loud triumphant song, 
At sunny noon, dearest ! I'll be with thee : 
Not as when last I linger'd on the strand, 
Tracing our names on the inconstant sand ; 
But in each bright thing that around shall be : 
My voice shall call thee from the ocean's breast, 
Thou'lt see my hair in its bright, showery crest, 
In its dark, rocky depths, thou'lt see my eyes, 
My form, shall be the light cloud in the skies, 
My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright, 
And flood thee o'er with love, and life, and light. 



In the dark, lonely night, 
When sleep and silence keep their watch o'er men ; 

False love ! in thy despite, 
I will be with thee then. 
When in the world of dreams thy spirit strays, 
Seeking, in vain, the peace it finds not here, 
Thou shalt be led back to thine early days 
Of life and love, and I will meet thee there. 
I'll come to thee, with the bright, sunny brow, 
That was Hope's throne before I met with thee; 
And then I'll show thee how 'tis furrowed now 
By the untimely age of misery. 
I'll speak to thee, in the fond, joyous tone, 
That wooed thee still with love's impassioned 
spell ; 

And then I'll teach thee how I've learnt to moan, 
Since last upon thine ear its accents fell. 



I'll come to thee in all youth's brightest power, 
As on the day thy faith to mine was plighted, 
And then I'll tell thee weary hour by hour, 
How that spring's early promise has been blighted. 
I'll tell thee of the long, long, dreary years, 
That have passed o'er me hopeless, objectless ; 
My loathsome days, my nights of burning tears, 
My wild despair, my utter loneliness, 
My heart-sick dreams upon my feverish bed, 
My fearful longing to be with the dead ; — 

In the dark lonely night, 
When sleep and silence keep their watch o'er men ; 

False love ! in thy despite, 
We two shall meet again ! 



Spirit of all sweet sounds ! who in mid air 
Sittest enthroned, vouchsafe to hear my prayer ! 
Let all those instruments of music sweet, 
That in great nature's hymn bear burthen meet, 
Sing round this mossy pillow, where my head 
From the bright noontide sky is sheltered. 
Thou southern wind ! wave, wave thy od'rous 
wings ; 

O'er your smooth channels gush, ye crystal springs ! 
Ye laughing elves ! that through the rustling corn 
Run chattering; thou tawny-coated bee, 
Who at thy honey-work sing'st drowsily ; 
And ye, oh ye ! who greet the dewy morn, 
And fragrant eventide, with melody, 
Ye wild wood minstrels, sing my lullaby ! 



I would I might be with thee, when the year 
Begins to wane, and that thou walk'st alone 
Upon the rocky strand, whilst loud and clear, 
The autumn wind sings, from his cloudy throne, 
Wild requiems for the summer that is gone. 
Or when, in sad and contemplative mood, 
Thy feet explore the leafy-paven wood : 
I would my soul might reason then with thine, 
Upon those themes most solemn and most strange, 
Which every falling leaf and fading flower, 
Whisper unto us with a voice divine; 
Filling the brief space of one mortal hour, 
With fearful thoughts of death, decay, and change, 
And the high mystery of that after birth, 
That comes to us, as well as to the earth. 



By jasper founts, whose falling waters make 
Eternal music to the silent hours ; 
Or 'neath the gloom of solemn cypress bowers, 
Through whose dark screen no prying sunbeams 
break : 

How oft I dream I see thee wandering, 
With thy majestic mien, and thoughtful eyes, 
And lips, whereon all holy counsel lies, 
And shining tresses of soft rippling gold, 
Like to some shape beheld in days of old 
By seer or prophet, when, as poets sing, 
The gods had not forsaken yet the earth, 
But loved to haunt each shady dell and grove ; 
When ev'ry breeze was the soft breath of love, 
When the blue air rang with sweet sounds of mirth, 
And this dark world seemed fair as at its birth. 




Death and I, 

On a hill so high, 
Stood side by side : 

And we saw below, 

Running to and fro, 
All things that be in the world so wide. 

Ten thousand cries 

From the gulf did rise, 
With a wild discordant sound ; 

Laughter and wailing, 

Prayer and railing, 
As the ball spun round and round. 

And over all 

Hung a floating pall 
Of dark and gory veils : 

'Tis the blood of years, 

And the sighs and tears, 
Which this noisome marsh exhales. 



All this did seem 

Like a fearful dream, 
Till Death cried with a joyful cry : 

" Look down ! look down ! 

It is all mine own, 
Here comes life's pageant by !" 

Like to a masque in ancient revelries, 
With mingling sound of thousand harmonies, 
Soft lute and viol, trumpet-blast and gong, 
They came along, and still they came along ! 
Thousands, and tens of thousands, all that e'er 
Peopled the earth, or ploughed th' unfathomed 

All that now breathe the universal air, 
And all that in the womb of Time yet sleep. 

Before this mighty host a woman came, 
With hurried feet, and oft-averted head ; 

With accursed light 

Her eyes were bright, 
And with inviting hand them on she beckoned. 
Her followed close, with wild acclaim, 
Her servants three : Lust, with his eye of fire, 
And burning lips, that tremble with desire, 
Pale sunken cheek :— and as he staggered by, 



The trumpet-blast was hush'd, and there arose 

A melting strain of such soft melody, 

As breath'dinto the soul love's ecstacies and woes. 

Loudly again the trumpet smote the air, 

The double drum did roll, and to the sky 

Bay'd War's bloodhounds, the deep artillery ; 

And Glory, 

With feet all gory, 
And dazzling eyes, rushed by, 
Waving a flashing sword and laurel wreath, 
The pang, and the inheritance of death. 

He pass'd like lightning — then ceased every sound 
Of war triumphant, and of love's sweet song, 
And all was silent — Creeping slow along, 
With eager eyes, that wandered round and round, 
Wild, haggard mien, and meagre, wasted frame, 
Bow'd to the earth, pale, starving Av'rice came : 
Clutching with palsied hands his golden god, 
And tottering in the path the others trod. 

These, one by one, 

Came and were gone : 
And after them followed the ceaseless stream 
Of worshippers, who, with mad shout and scream, 
Unhallow'd toil, and more unhallow'd mirth, 
Follow their mistress, Pleasure, through the earth. 



Death's eyeless sockets glared upon them all, 
And many in the train were seen to fall, 
Livid and cold, beneath his empty gaze ; 
But not for this was stay'd the mighty throng, 
Nor ceased the warlike clang, or wanton lays, 
But still they rush'd — along — along — along ! 


To a Lady who wrote under my likeness as Juliet, " Lieti 
giorni e felice." 

Whence should they come, lady ! those happy days 
That thy fair hand and gentle heart invoke 
Upon my head ? Alas ! such do not rise 
On any, of the many, who with sighs 
Bear through this journey-land of wo, life's yoke. 
The light of such lives not in thine own lays ; 
Such were not hers, that girl, so fond, so fair, 
Beneath whose image thou hast traced thy pray r. 
Evil, and few, upon this darksome earth, 
Must be the days of all of mortal birth ; 
Then why not mine ? Sweet lady ! wish again, 
Not more of joy to me, but less of pain ; 
Calm slumber, when life's troubled hours are past, 
A n d w i t h t h y f r i e n d s h i p c h e e r t h e m w h i 1 e t h e y 1 a s t . 



Merciful spirit I who thy bright throne above 
Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth 
With me, poor child of sin ! — Angel of love ! 
Whose guardian wings hung o'er me from my 

And who still walk'st unwearied by my side, 
How oft, oh thou compassionate ! must thou 

Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride, 
That thy pure eyes behold ! Yet not aside 
From thy sad task dost thou in anger turn ; 
But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed, 
And followed still, striving with the divine 
Powers of thy soul for mastery over mine ; 
And though all line of human hope be past, 
Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last. 


Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we never 
dream of ourselves younger than we are. 

Xot in our dreams, not even in our dreams, 
May we return to that sweet land of youth, 
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth, 
Which as we farther roam hut fairer seems. 
In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays 
Yv T hen she has laid her mortal charge to rest, 
"We oft behold far future hours and days, 
But ne'er live o'er the past, the happiest. 
How oft will fancy's wild imaginings 
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen f 
But ah ! not e'en unfettered fancy's wings 
Can lead us back to aught that we have been, 
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore, 
Which e'en in slumber we may tread no more. 



Whene'er I recollect the happy time 
"When you and I held converse dear together, 
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny 

Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime ; 
Your memory lives for ever in my mind 
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring, 
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twined, 
And many a noonday woodland wandering. 
There 's not a thought of you, but brings along 
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky ; 
J Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song, 
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody. 
And as I date it still, our love arose 
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose. 



Hail to thee, spirit of hope ! whom men call 
Spring ; 

Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide 
Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide. 
Spirit of life ! the old decrepid earth 
Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous hirth, 
Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb, 
A thousand germs of light and beauty come. 
Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap 
From their bright winter-woven fetters free; 
Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep, 
And greet thee with a gush of melody. 
The air is full of music, wild and sweet, 
Made by the joyous waving of the trees, 
Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet, 
And by the work-song of the early bees, 
In the white blossoms fondly murmuring, 
And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing; 


Hail to thee ! maiden, with the bright blue eyes ! 
And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew ; 
Hail to thee ! as thou ridest through the skies, 
Upon thy rainbow car of various hue. 


How passing sad ! Listen, it sings again ! 

Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs, 
The livelong day dost chaunt that wond'rous strain 

Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows 
Out of the clouds to hear thee ? Who shall say, 
Thou lone one ! that thy melody is gay, 
Let him come listen now to that one note, 

That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again 
Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat, 

With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain, 
I prithee cease thy song ! for from my heart 
Thou hast made memory's bitter waters start, 

And filled my weary eyes with the soul's rain. 



Lady, whom my beloved loves so well ! 

When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth, 
When on thy lips his ardent kisses dwell, 

And the bright flood of burning light, that 

In his dark eyes, is poured into thine ; 

When thou shalt lie enfolded to his heart, 
In all the trusting helplessness of love ; 

If in such joy sorrow can find a part, 

Oh, give one sigh unto a doom like mine ! 
Which I would have thee pity, but not prove. 
One cold, calm, careless, wintry look, that fell 

Haply by chance on me, is all that he 
E'er gave my love j round that, my wild thoughts 

In one eternal pang of memory, 


When the dawn 
O'er hill and dale 
Throws her bright veil, 

Oh, think of me ! 
When the rain 
With starry showers 
Fills all the flowers, 

Oh, think of me ! 
When the wind 
Sweeps along, 
Loud and strong, 

Oh, think of me ! 
When the laugh 
With silver sound 
Goes echoing round, 

Oh, think of me ! 



When the night 
With solemn eyes 
Looks from the skies, 

Oh, think of me I 
When the air 
Still as death 
Holds its breath. 

Oh, think of me ! 
When the earth 
Sleeping sound 
Swings round and round, 

Oh, think of me ! 
When thy soul 
O'er life's dark sea 
Looks gloomily, 

Oh, think of me.! 




A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes, 

Full of eternal constancy and faith, 
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs 

Truth's holy voice, with ev'ry balmy breath ; 
So journeys she along life's crowded way, 

Keeping her soul's sweet counsel from all sight ; 
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray, 

Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or 
bright : 

For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay 
Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her 

Knows well in suffering how to bear its part. 
Patiently lives she through each dreary day, 
Looking with little hope unto the morrow; 
And still she walketh hand in hand with 



I never shall forget thee — 'tis a word 

Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none 
On whom thy wond'rous eyes have ever shone 

But for a moment, or who e'er have heard 

Thy voice's deep impassioned melody, 

Can lose the memory of that look or tone. 

But, not as these, do I say unto thee, 

I never shall forget thee : — in thine eyes, 

Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world re- 

A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies ; 
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice. 
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee, 
Thou art not like the beings that surround thee ; 

To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear; 
Yet why of fear ? — oh sure ! the Power that lent 
Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent, 
Still watches one whom it has deigned to bless 
With such a dower of grace and loveliness ; 

Over the dangerous waves 'twill surely steer 



The richly freighted bark, through storm and blast, 
And guide it safely to the port at last. 
Such is my prayer ; 'tis warm as ever fell 
From off my lips : accept it, and farewell I 
And though in this strange world where first I 
met thee, 

We meet no more — I never shall forget thee. 



Oxce more, once more into the sunny fields 

Oh, let me stray ! 
And drink the joy that young existence yields 

In a bright, cloudless day. 

Once more let me behold the summer sky, 

With its blue eyes, 
And join the wild wind's voice of melody, 

As far and free it flies. 

Once more, once more, oh let me stand and hear 

The gushing spring, 
As its bright drops fall starlike, fast and clear, 

And in the sunshine sing. 

Once more, oh let me list the soft sweet breeze 

At evening mourn : 
Let me, oh let me say farewell to these, 

And to my task I gaily will return. 
g 3 



Oh, lovely earth ! oh, blessed smiling sky ! 

Oh, music of the wood, the wave, the wind ! 
I do but linger till my ear and eye 

Have traced ye on the tablets of my mind — 

And then, fare ye well ! 
Bright hill and bosky dell, 
Clear spring and haunted well, 
Night-blowing flowers pale, 
Smooth lawn and lonely vale, 
Sleeping lakes and sparkling fountains, 
Shadowy woods and sheltering mountains, 
Flowery land and sunny sky, 
And echo sweet, my playmate shy ; 
Fare ye well! — fare ye well ! 



Loud wind, strong wind, where art thou blowing ? 
Into the air, the viewless air, 
To be lost there : 
There am I blowing. 

Clear wave, swift wave, where art thou flowing ? 
Unto the sea, the boundless sea, 
To be whelm' d there: 
There am I flowing. 

Young life, swift life, where art thou going ? 

Down to the grave, the loathsome grave , 
To moulder there : 
There am I going. 



When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky, 
Upon each shadowy glen and woody height, 

And that you tread those well known paths where I 
Have stray 'd with you, — do not forget me quite. 

When the warm hearth throws its bright glow 

On many a smiling cheek, and glance of light, 
And the gay laugh wakes with its joyous sound 
The soul of mirth, — do not forget me quite. 

You will not miss me ; for with you remain 
Hearts fond and warm, and spirits young and 

'Tis but one word — "farewell;'' and all again 
Will seem the same, — yet don't forget me quite. 



'Twas a fit hour for parting, 

For athwart the leaden sky 
The heavy clouds came gathering 

And sailing gloomily : 
The earth was drunk with heaven's tears, 

And each moaning autumn breeze 
Shook the burthen of its weeping 

Off the overladen trees. 
The waterfall rushed swollen down r 

In the gloaming, still and gray ; 
With a foam-wreath on the angry brow 

Of each wave that flashed away. 
My tears were mingling with the rain, 

That fell so cold and fast, 
And my spirit felt thy low deep sigh 

Through the wild and roaring blast. 
The beauty of the summer woods 

Lay rustling round our feet, 
And all fair things had passed away — 

Twas an hour for parting meet. 



When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes, 
That have seen the last sunset of hope pass 

On some bright orb that seems, through the still 
sapphire skies, 
In beauty and splendour to roll on its way : 

Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar, 
Appears wrapt in a halo as soft, and as bright, 

As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star, 
Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night. 

And at this very midnight, perhaps some poor 

That is aching, or breaking, in that distant 
sphere ; 

Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart 
From its own dismal home, to a happier one here. 



Thou little star, that in the purple clouds 
Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed ; 

First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds, 
'Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and 
dead : 

As through my tears my soul looks up to thee, 

Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here, 
There comes a fearful thought that misery 

Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere. 
Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin, 

The heritage of death, disease, decay, 
A wilderness, like that we wander in, 

Where all things fairest, soonest pass away ? 
And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world, 

Round which life's sweetest buds fall withered, 
Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie 

And living hearts are mouldering with the 
dead ? 



Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee, 
Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours ; 

Unchanging woe, and endless misery, 

And mourning that hath neither days nor 

Horrible dream !— Oh dark and dismal path, 
"Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave 
thee ; 

Earth has one boon for all her children — death : 
Open thy arms, oh mother ! and receive me ! 

Take off the bitter burthen from the slave, 
Give me my birthright ! give — the grave, the 
grave ! 



Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil 
Of life, which I am doomed to till full sore, 

Spring'st like a noisome weed ! I do not toil 
For thee, and yet thou still com'st darkening 

My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade. 
Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose 

All fair and gentle buds hang withering ! 
Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my 

Casting from thence the blossoms of my 

Breathing on youth's sweet roses till they 

Alas ! thou art an evil weed of woe, 

Watered with tears and watched with sleepless 

Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare ; 
And yet men covet thee — ah, wherefore do they so \ 




I hear a voice low in the sunset woods ; 
Listen, it says : " Decay, decay, decay !" 

I hear it in the murmuring of the floods, 
And the wind sighs it as it flies away. 
Autumn is come ; seest thou not in the skies, 
The stormy light of his fierce lurid eyes ? 
Autumn is come ; his brazen feet have trod, 
Withering and scorching, o'er the mossy sod. 
The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath 
Shrivel in his hot grasp ; his burning breath 
Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade 
Wandering along, delicious music made. 
A flood of glory hangs upon the world, 
Summer's bright wings shining ere they are 



Is it a sin to wish that I may meet thee 

In that dim world whither our spirits stray, 
When sleep and darkness follow life and day ? 

Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee 
With all that love that I must die concealing ? 
Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealing 

The agony that preys upon my soul ? 

Is't not enough through the long, loathsome day, 

To hold each look, and word, in stern control ? 
May I not wish the staring sunlight gone, 
Day and its thousand torturing moments done, 

And prying sights and sounds of men away ? 
Oh, still and silent Night! when all things sleep, 
Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep : 
Come, with thy vision'd hopes and bl essings now ! 
I dream the only happiness I know. 



Written at four o'clock in the morning, after a ball. 

Oh, modest maiden morn ! why dost thou blush, 
Who thus betimes art walking in the sky ? 

'Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure's sleepless flush, 
Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye, 

Shadowy, yet clear : from the bright eastern door, 
Where the sun's shafts lie bound with thongs 
of fire, 

Along the heaven's amber-paved floor, 

The glad hours move, hymning their early choir. 

O, fair and fragrant morn ! upon my brow 
Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping 

Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ere 
Day's chariot-wheels upon th' horizon glow, 
Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray, 
And bear me to thy twilight bowers away. 



In answer to a question. 

I'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth 
But as the visions light of one who dreaxneth, 
Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind; 
Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly, 
In me awakeneth no melancholy, 
Nor leaveth shade, or sadness, on my mind. 
'Tis not that with an undiscerning eye 
I see the pageant wild go dancing by, 
Mistaking that which falsest is, for true j 
'Tis not that pleasure hath entwined me, 
'Tis not that sorrow hath enshrined me ; 
I bear no badge of roses or of rue, 
But in the inmost chambers of my soul 
There is another world, a blessed home, 
O'er which no living power holdeth control, 
Anigh to which ill things do never come. 
There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought, 
With hope, and faith, holding communion high, 
Over a fragrant land with flowers wrought, 
Where gush the living springs of poesy ; 



There speak the voices that I love to hear, 
There smile the glances that I love to see, 
There live the forms of those my soul holds dear, 
For ever, in that secret world, with me. 
They who have walked with me along life's way, 
And sever'd been by Fortune's adverse tide, 
Who ne'er again, through Time's uncertain day, 
In weal or woe, may wander by my side ; 
These all dwell here : nor these, whom life alone 
Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead ; 
Those weary ones who to their rest are gone, 
"Whose footprints from the earth have vanished ; 
Here dwell they all : and here, within this world. 
Like light within a summer sun cloud furled, 
My spirit dwells. Therefore, this evil life, 
With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings, 
Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings, 
Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife. 
thou ! who readest, of thy courtesy, 
Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee ! 



I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall, 
The fairies' palace beside the stream ; 

"Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall 

Through their tresses dark, with a mellow 

I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn, 
When the young moon hangs on the brow of 

Xor see the morning, at early dawn, 

Shake the fading stars from her robes of light. 

I shall fly no more on my fiery steed, 

O'er the springing sward, — through the twi- 
light wood ; 

Nor reign my courser, and check my speed, 
By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood. 

At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more 

'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell : 
The sun is set,— the day is o'er, — 

The summer is past ; — farewell I — farewell ! 



Oh, serious eyes ! how is it that the light, 

The burning rays that mine pour into ye, 

Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark, as night — 

Oh, lifeless eyes ! can ye not answer me ? 

Oh, lips ! whereon mine own so often dwell, 

Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell 

To waken sense in ye ?— oh, misery ! — 

Oh, breathless lips ! can ye not speak to me ? 

Thou soulless mimicry of life ! my tears 

Fall scalding over thee ; in vain, in vain, 

I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears, 

Are all thine own ; thou dost not feel the strain. 

Oh, thou dull image ! wilt thou not reply 

To my fond prayers and wild idolatry ? 



There 's not a fibre in my trembling frame 

That does not vibrate when thy step draws near, 

There 's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear 

Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name. 

When thou art with me, every sense seems dull, 

And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee ; 

My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame, 

And my bewildered spirit seems to swim 

In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily. 

When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart 

A cold and bitter consciousness of pain : 

The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart, 

And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again 

Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone ; 

And suddenly I wake — and am alone. 



Come where the white waves dance along the 

Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas ; 
Whose golden sands by mortal foot before 
Were never printed,— where the fragrant breeze, 
That never swept o'er land or flood that man 
Could call his own, th' unearthly breeze shall fan 
Our mingled tresses with its odorous sighs ; 
Where the eternal heaven's blue, sunny eyes 
Did ne'er look down on human shapes of earth, 
Or aught of mortal mould and death-doomed 
birth : 

Come there with me ; and when we are alone 
In that enchanted desert, where the tone 
Of earthly voice, or language, yet did ne'er 
With its strange music startle the still air, 
When clasped in thy upholding arms I stand, 
Upon that bright world's coral-cradled strand, 
When I can hide my face upon thy breast, 
While thy heart answers mine together pressed, 
Then fold me closer, bend thy head above me, 
Listen— and I will tell thee how I love thee. 



Oh, sunny Love ! 
Crowned with fresh flowering May, 

Breath like the Indian clove, 
Eyes like the dawn of day ; 

Oh, sunny Love ! 

Oh, fatal Love ! 
Thy robe wreath is nightshade all, 

With gloomy cypress wove, 
Thy kiss is bitter gall, 

Oh, fatal Love ! 



Never, oh never more ! shall I behold 

Thy form so fair, 
Or loosen from its braids the rippling gold 

Of thy long hair. 

Never, oh never more ! shall I be blest 

By thy voice low, 
Or kiss, while thou art sleeping on my breast, 

Thy marble brow. 

Never, oh never more ! shall I inhale 

Thy fragrant sighs, 
Or gaze, with fainting soul, upon the veil 

Of thy bright eyes. 



Oh child ! who to this evil world art come, 
Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee, 

Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home ! 
Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee ! 

Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sin 

Hath worn no trace ; thou look'st as though 
from heaven, 

But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within ; 
Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven. 

Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep, 
And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems ; 

The time 's at hand when thou must wake to weep, 
Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams. 

How oft, as day by day life's burthen lies 
Heavier and darker on thy fainting soul, 

Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes, 
And long in bitterness to reach the goal I 


How oft wilt thou, upon Time's flinty road, 
Gaze at thy far-off early days, in vain ; 

Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load, 
And curse and pray, then take it up again ! 

How many times shall the fiend Hope, extend 
Her poisonous chalice to thy thirsty lips ! 

How oft shall Love its withering sunshine lend, 
To leave thee only a more dark eclipse ! 

How oft shall Sorrow strain thee in her grasp, — 
How oft shall Sin laugh at thine overthrow — 

How oft shall Doubt, Despair, and Anguish clasp 
Their knotted arms around thine aching brow ! 

Oh, living soul, hail to thy narrow cage ! 

Spirit of light, hail to thy gloomy cave ! 
Welcome to longing youth, to loathing age, 

Welcome, immortal ! welcome to the grave ! 



Life wanes, and the bright sunlight of our youth 
Sets o'er the mountain-tops, where once Hope 

Oh, Innocence ! oh, Trustfulness r oh, Truth ! 

Where are ye all, white-handed sisterhood, 
AVho with me on my way did walk along, 
Singing sweet scraps of that immortal song 
That's hymn'd in Heaven, but hath no echo here ? 
Are ye departing, fellows bright and clear, 

Of the young spirit, when it first alights 
Upon this earth of darkness and dismay ? 
Farewell ! fair children of th' eternal day, 

Blossoms of that far land where fall no blights, 
Sweet kindred of my exiled soul, farewell ! 
Here I must w r ander, here ye may not dwell ; 
Back to your home beyond the founts of light 
I see ye fly, and I am wrapt in night I 



Spirit, bright spirit ! from thy narrow cell 
Answer me I answer me ! oh, let me hear 
Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near ! 

That from the bonds in which thou'rt forced to 

Thou hast not broken free, thou art not fled, 
Thou hast not pined away, thou art not dead. 
Speak to me through thy prison bars ; my life 
With all things round, is one eternal strife, 
'Mid whose wild din I pause to hear thy voice ; 

Speak to me, look on me, thou born of light I 
That I may know thou'rt with me, and rejoice. 
Shall not this weary warfare pass away ? 
Shall there not come a better, brighter day ? 
Shall not thy chain and mine be broken quite, 
And thou to heaven spring, 
With thine immortal wing, 
And I, still following, 



With steps that do not tire, 
Reach my desire, 
And to thy worship bring 
Some worthy offering ? 
Oh ! let but these dark days be once gone by, 

And thou, unwilling captive, that dost strain, 
With tiptoe longing, vainly, towards the sky, 

O'er the whole kingdom of my life shalt reign. 
But, while I'm doomed beneath the yoke to bow, 

Of sordid toiling in these caverns drear, 
Oh, look upon me sometimes with thy brow 

Of shining brightness ; sometimes let me hear 
Thy blessed voice, singing the songs of Heaven, 
Whence thou and I, together have been driven ; 
Give me assurance that thoa still art nigh, 
Lest I sink down beneath my load, and die ! 



The waterfall is calling me 
With its merry gleesome flow, 

And the green boughs are beckoning me, 
To where the wild flowers grow : 

I may not go, I may not go, 

To where the sunny waters flow, 

To where the wild wood flowers blow ; 

I must stay here 

In prison drear, 
Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on, 
Would God that thou wert done ! 

The busy mill-wheel round and round 
Goes turning, with its reckless sound, 
And o'er the dam the waters flow 
Into the foaming stream below, 
And deep and dark away they glide, 
To meet the broad, bright river's tide ; 


And all the way 

They murmuring say : 

" Oh, child ! why art thou far away 

Come back into the sun, and stray 

Upon our mossy side ! M 

I may not go, I may not go, 

To where the gold-green waters inn, 
All shining in the summer sun, 
And leap from off the dam below 
Into a whirl of boiling snow, 
Laughing and shouting as they go ; 
I must stay here 
In prison drear, 
Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on, 
Would God that thou wert done ! 

The soft spring wind goes passing by, 

Into the forests wide and cool ; 
The clouds go trooping through the sky, 

To look down on some glassy pool ; 
The sunshine makes the world rejoice, 
And all of them, with gentle voice, 
Call me away, 
With them to stay, 
The blessed, livelong summer's day. 


I may not go, I may riot go, 

Where the sweet breathing spring winds blow, 

Nor where the silver clouds go by, 

Across the holy, deep blue sky, 

Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright, 

Comes down like a still shower of light ; 

I must stay here 

In prison drear, 
Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on, 
Would God that thou wert done ! 

Oh, that I were a thing with wings ! 
A bird, that in a May-hedge sings ! 
A lonely heather bell that swings 

Upon some wild hill-side ; 
. Or even a silly, senseless stone, 
With dark, green, starry moss o'ergrown, 

Round which the waters glide. 



My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side, 
"When once they turn away, thou Pleasant 

Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide, 

Will shine the eyes of the White Island's 

But often in my dreams, when I am gone 

Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine, 
Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine, 

And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on. 

And when the burden of existence lies 
Upon my soul, darkly and heavily, 

Til clasp my hands over my weary eyes, 

Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear waves see. 

Bright be thy course for ever and for ever, 

Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain 
snow ; 



And as thou wanderest on to meet the river, 

Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow ! 
I never shall come back to thee again, 
"When once my sail is shadowed on the main, 
Nor ever shall I hear thy laughing voice 
As on their rippling way thy waves rejoice, 
Nor ever see the dark green cedar throw 
Its gloomy shade o'er the clear depths below, 
Never, from stony rifts of granite gray 
Sparkling like diamond rocks in the sun's ray, 
Shall I look down on thee, thou pleasant stream, 
Beneath whose crystal folds the gold sands gleam; 
Wherefore, farewell ! but when soe'er again 

The wintry spell melts from the earth and air ; 
And the young Spring comes dancing through 
thy glen, 

With fragrant, flowery breath, and sunny hair ; 
When through the snow the scarlet berries gleam, 
Like jewels strewn upon thy banks, fair stream, 
My spirit shall through many a summer's day 
Return, among thy peaceful woods to stray. 



Good night, love ! 
May Heaven's brightest stars watch over thee ! 
Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee, 
And through the night, 

So dark and still, 
Spirits of light 

Charm thee from ill ! 
My heart is hovering round thy dwelling-place, 
Good night, dear love ! God bless thee with his 
grace ! 

Good night, love ! 
Soft lullabies the night-wind sing to thee ! 
And on its wings sweet odours bring to thee ! 
And in thy dreaming 

May all things dear, 
With gentle seeming, 
Come smiling near! 
My knees are bowed, my hands are clasped in 
prayer — 

Good night, dear love ! God keep thee in his care ! 



Mother, mother ! my heart is wild, 
Hold me upon your bosom dear, 

Do not frown on your own poor child, 
Death is darkly drawing near. 

Mother, mother ! the bitter shame 

Eats into my very soul ; 
And longing love, like a wrapping flame, 

Burns me away without control. 

Mother, mother ! upon my brow 

The clammy death-sweats coldly rise ; 

How dim and strange your features grow 
Through the hot mist that veils my eyes ! 

Mother, mother! sing me the song 
They sing on sunny August eves, 

The rustling barley-fields along, 
Binding up the ripe, red sheaves. 



Mother, mother ! I do not hear 

Your voice — but his, — oh, guard me well ! 
His breathing makes me faint with fear, 

His clasping arms are round me still. 

Mother, mother ! unbind my vest, 
Upon my heart lies his first token : 

Now lay me in my narrow nest, 

Your withered blossom, crushed and broken. 


You say you're glad I write — oh, say not so ! 

My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well ; 
And when the numbers freely from it flow, 

Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well. 

Castalia, fam'd of yore, — the spring divine, 
Apollo's smile upon its current wears : 

Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine, 
To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears. 




The hours are past, love, 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those happy hours, when down the mountain 

We saw the rosy mists of morning glide, 
And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way, 
Full of young life and hope, to meet the day. 

The hours are past, love, 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat, 
We sought the waterfall with loitering feet, 
And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool, 
Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool. 

The hours are past, love, 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love I 
Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky, 
Alike without a cloud, without a ray, 
The round red autumn moon came glowingly, 
While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way. 



The hours are past, love, 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those blessed hours, when the bright day was 

And in the world we seemed to wake alone, 
When heart to heart beat throbbingly, and fast, 
And love was melting our two souls in one. 


Better trust all, and be deceived, 

And weep that trust, and that deceiving ; 

Than doubt one heart, that if believed, 
Had blessed one's life with true believing. 

Oh, in this mocking world, too fast 

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ! 

Better be cheated to the last, 

Than loose the blessed hope of truth. 


Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed, 
Those we let fall over the silent dead ? 
Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom, 
Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb ? 
Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave, 
Round which the slender, sunny, grass- blades 
wave ? 

Who are ye calling back to tread again 
This weary walk of life ? towards whom, in vain, 
Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised ; 
The young, the loved, the honoured, and the 
praised ? 

Come hither ; — look upon the faded cheek 
Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek 
Veils her most mournful eyes ; — upon her brow 
Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow, 
When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly 

But patience oftener sits palely there. 

"'tis an old tale and often told." 113 

Beauty has left her — hope and joy have long 
Fled from her heart, yet she is young, is young ; 
Has many years, as human tongues would tell, 
Upon the face of this blank earth to dwell. 
Looks she not sad ? 'tis but a tale of old, 
Told o'er and o'er, and ever to be told, 
The hourly story of our every day, 
Which when men hear, they sigh and turn away ; 
A tale too trite almost to find an ear, 
A woe too common to deserve a tear. 
She is the daughter of a distant land ; — 
Her kindred are far off ; — her maiden hand, 
Sought for by many, was obtained by one 
Who owned a different birthland from her own. 
But what reck'd she of that ? as low she knelt 
Breathing her marriage vows, her fond heart felt, 
" For thee, I give up country, home, and friends ; 
Thy love for each, for all, shall make amends 
And was she loved ? — perishing by her side 
The children of her bosom drooped and died ; 
The bitter life they drew from her cold breast 
Flicker'd and failed ; she laid them down to rest, 
Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep, 
And weeping said, " They have not lived to weep." 
And weeps she yet ? no, to her weary eyes 
The bliss of tears, her frozen heart denies ; 
k 3 



Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips, 

Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse. 

Lead her to the green grave where ye have laid 

The creature that ye mourn ; — let it be said, 

" Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest V 

She only sadly murmurs, " Blest!— most blest !" 

And turns from gazing, lest her misery 

Should make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die. 


From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98o i; 

the shade. 

* * * * * 

Oh ! for the temperate airs that blow 

Upon that darling of the sea, 
Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow, 

For three days hold supremacy ; 
But ever-varying skies contend 
The blessings of all climes to lend, 
To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle, 
In never-fading beauty smile. 



England, oh England ! for the breeze 
That slowly stirs thy forest-trees ! 
Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains, 
Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains, 
Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow 

Of many a giant oak is sleeping ; 
The tangled copse, the sunny meadow, 

Through which the summer rills run weepin 
Oh, land of flowers ! while sinking here 

Beneath the dog-star of the West, 
The music of the waves I hear 
That cradle thee upon their breast. 
Fresh o'er thy rippling corn-fields fly 

The wild-winged breezes of the sea, 
While from thy smiling, summer sky, 

The ripening sun looks tenderly. 
And thou — to whom through all this heat 
My parboiled thoughts will fondly turn, 
Oh ! in what " shady blest retreat " 

Art thou ensconced, while here I burn ? 
Across the lawn, in the deep glade, 
Where hand in hand we oft have strayed, 
Or communed sweetly, side by side, 
Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide, 
As gently on the pebbly beach 
It lays its head, then ebbs away, 



Or round the rocks, with nearer reach, 

Throws up a cloud of silvery spray ? 
Or to the firry w T oods, that shed 

Their spicy odours to the sun, 
Goest thou with meditative tread, 

Thinking of all things that are done 
Beneath the sky ? — a great, big thought, 

Of which I know you're very fond. 
For me, my mind is solely w r rought 

To this one wish : — ! in a pond 
Would I were over head and ears ! 

(Of a cold ducking I've no fears) 
Or any where, where I am not ; 

For, bless the heat ! it is too hot ! 


Blame not my tears, love : to you has been given 
The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows ; 
The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from 

And shines from your heart, on this life and its 



Blame not my tears, love : on you her best treasure 
Kind nature has lavish' d, oh, long he it yours ! 
For how barren soe'er be the path you now 

The future still woos you with hands full of 

Oh, ne'er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy 
keeping ! 

The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings ; 
If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy 

As the sun his warm rays through a spring 
shower flings. 

But blame not my tears, love : to me 'twas denied ; 
And when fate to my lips gave this life's min- 
gled cup, 

She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter 

And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop. 



Were they but dreams ? Upon the darkening world 
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled, 
On which the day soared to the sunny west : 
The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest, 
Looking upon the never-resting earth; 
All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth 
Of night, but where has fled the happy dream 
That at this hour, last night, our life did seem ? 
Where are the mountains with their tangled hair, 
The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair ? 
Where are the shadows of the solemn hills, 
And the fresh music of the summer rills ? 
Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and 

And the great, glorious river, broad and deep, 
And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet, 
And the wild torrent's snowy, leaping feet, 
The rustling, rocking boughs, the running 
streams, — 

Where are they all ? gone, gone ! were they but 
dreams ? 



And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone, 
That from the mountain-side came dancing down ? 
The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes, 
The happy hearts, the human paradise, 
The youth, the love, the life that revelled here, — 
Are they too gone ?• — Upon Time's shadowy bier, 
The pale, cold hours of joys now past, are laid, 
Perhaps, not soon from memory's gaze to fade, 
But never to be reckoned o'er again, 
In all life's future store of bliss and pain. 
From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart, 
Youth flies — love dies — and from the joyous heart 
Hope's gushing fountain ebbs too soon away, 
Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day, 
When from the barren waste of after life, 
The weariness, the worldliness, the strife, 
The soul looks o'er the desert of its way 
To the green gardens of its early day : 
The paradise, for which we vainly mourn, 
The heaven, to which our ling'ring eyes still turn, 
To which our footsteps never shall return. 



Pass thy hand through my hair, love ; 

One little year ago, 
In a curtain bright and rare, love, 

It fell golden o'er my brow. 
But the gold has passed away, love, 

And the drooping curls are thin, 
And cold threads of wintry gray, love, 
Glitter their folds within : 
How should this be, in one short year ? 
It is not age — can it be care ? 

Fasten thine eyes on mine, love ; 

One little year ago, 
Midsummer's sunny shine, love, 

Had not a warmer glow. 
But the light is there no more, love, 

Save in melancholy gleams, 
Like wan moonlight wand'ring o'er, love, 

Dim lands in troubled dreams : 
How should this be, in one short year ? 
It is not age — cau it be care ? 



Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love, 

One little year ago 
It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love, 

As the autumn peaches grow. 
But the rosy hue has fled, love, 

Save a flush that goes and comes, 
Like a flow'r born from the dead, love, 

And blooming over tombs : 
How should this be, in one short year ? 
It is not age — can it be care ? 




What was thine errand here ? 
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught 

That from this marred earth 

Takes its imperfect birth ; 
It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught 

From some far higher sphere, 
And though an angel now, thou still must bear 
The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear. 

What was thine errand here ? 
Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind, 

With earthly creatures coarse, 

Held not discourse, 
But with fine spirits, of some purer kind, 

Dwelt in communion dear ; 
And sure they speak to thee that language now, 
Which thou wert wont to speak to us below. 



What was thine errand here ? 
To adorn anguish, and ennoble death, 

And make infirmity 

A patient victory, 
And crown life's baseness with a glorious wreath, 

That fades not on thy bier, 
But fits, immortal soul ! thy triumph still, 
In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell. 


Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg. 

Thou who within thyself dost not behold 
Ruins as great as these, though not as old, 
Can'st scarce through life have travelled many a 

Or lack'st the spirit of a pilgrim here. 
Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride ; 
Love, its warm hearth-stones ; Hope, its prospects 
wide ; 

Life's fortress in thee, held these one, and all, 
And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall. 



Addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the Academy at 
Lenox, Massachusetts. 

Life is before ye — and while now ye stand 
Eager to spring upon the promised land, 
Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod 
But few light steps, upon a flowery sod ; 
Round ye are youth's green bowers, and to your 

Th' horizon's line joins earth with the bright skies ; 
Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy, 
Friendship unwavering, love without alloy, 
Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won, 
Like angels, beckon ye to venture on. 
And if o'er the bright scene some shadows rise, 
Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies ; 
The distant clouds, which of ye pause to fear ? 
Shall not a brightness gild them when more near ? 



Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the power 

Of youth is strong within ye at this hour, 

And the great mortal conflict seems to ye 

Not so much strife as certain victory — 

A glory ending in eternity. 

Life is before ye — oh ! if ye could look 

Into the secrets of that sealed book, 

Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith, 

Ye should sink down, and falter, " Give us death V s 

Could the dread Sphinx's lips but once disclose, 

And utter but a whisper of the woes 

Which must o'ertake ye, in your lifelong doom, 

Well might ye cry, " Our cradle be our tomb \" 

Could ye foresee your spirit's broken wings, 

Earth's brightest triumphs what despised things, 

Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame, 

Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame, 

Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all, 

Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall, 

Fast gathering darkness, and fast waning light, — 

Oh could ye see it all, ye might, ye might 

Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife, 

And die, but in beholding what is life. 

Life is before ye — from the fated road 
Ye cannot turn : then take ye up your load. 



Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way, 
Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may. 
Gird up your souls within ye to the deed, 
Angels, and fellow-spirits, bid ye speed ! 
What though the brightness dim, the pleasure 

The glory wane, — oh ! not of these is made 
The awful life that to your trust is given. 
Children of God ! inheritors of heaven ! 
Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy, 
Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy, 
To suffer, which is nobler than to dare ; 
A sacred burthen is this life ye bear, 
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, 
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly ; 
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, 
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win ; 
God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way, 
Young pilgrim warriors who set forth to-day! 



I am alone — oh be thou near to me, 
Great God ! from whom the meanest are not far. 
Not in presumption of the daring spirit, 
Striving to find the secrets of itself, 
Make I my weeping prayer ; in the deep want 
Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee; 
If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship, 
Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee. 
I have no fellow, Father ! of my kind ; 
None that be kindred, none companion to me, 
And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood, 
Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me, 
Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot. 
Around me grow the trees, each by the other ; 
Innumerable leaves, each like the other, 
Whisper and breathe, and live and move together. 
Around me spring the flowers ; each rosy cup 
Hath sisters, leaning their fair cheeks against it. 
The birds fly all above me ; not alone, 
But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering 
A joyous band, sweeping in companies 
The wide blue fields between the clouds ; — the 


Troop in society, each on the other 
Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light. 
The waves, a multitude, together run 
To the great breast of the receiving sea : 
Nothing but hath its kind, its company, 
Oh God ! save I alone ! then, let me come, 
Good Father ! to thy feet, when even as now, 
Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe, 
O'erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father ! 
When in my heart the stores of its affections, 
Piled up unused, locked fast, are like to burst 
The fleshly casket, that may not contain them, 
Let me come nigh to thee ; — accept thou them, 
Dear Father ! — Fount of Love ! Compassionate 

When in my spirit burns the fire, the power, 
That have made men utter the words of angels, 
And none are near to bid me speak and live : 
Hearken, oh Father ! Maker of my spirit ! 
God of my soul, to thee I will outpour 
The hymns resounding through my troubled mind, 
The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart, 
The tears, and weeping, of my weary eyes : 
Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God ! 
And fit me for such fellowship with thee ! 



What shall I do with all the days and hours 
That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 

How shall I charm the interval that lowers 
Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, 
Weary with longing ? — shall I flee away 

Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
Of casting from me God's great gift of time ; 

Shall I these mists of memory locked within, 
Leave, and forget, life's purposes sublime ? 

Oh ! how, or by what means, may I contrive 
To bring the hour that brings thee back more 
near ? 

How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 



I'll tell thee : for thy sake, I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told 
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 

Through these long hours, nor call their mi- 
nutes pains. 

I will this dreary blank of absence make 
A noble task time, and will therein strive 

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 

More good than I have won, since yet I live. 

So may this doomed time build up in me 

A thousand graces which shall thus be thine ; 

So may my love and longing hallowed be, 
And thy dear thought an influence divine. 



"When the bright sun back on his yearly road 
Comes towards us, his great glory seems to me, 

As from the sky he pours it all abroad, 
A golden herald, my beloved, of thee. 

When from the south the gentle winds do blow, 
Calling the flowers that sleep beneath the earth, 

It sounds like sweetest music, that doth go 
Before thy coming, full of love and mirth. 

When one by one the violets appear, 
Opening their purple vests so modestly, 

To greet the virgin daughter of the year, 
Each seems a fragrant prophecy of thee. 

For with the spring thou shalt return again ; 
Therefore the wind, the flower, and clear 

A double worship from my heart obtain, 

A love and welcome not their own, but thine. 



Written in London. 

Struggle not with thy life ! — the heavy doom 
Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave : 

Strive not ! thou shalt not conquer ; to thy tomb 
Thou shalt go crushed, and ground, though 
ne'er so brave. 

Complain not of thy life I — for what art thou 
More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not 
weep ? 

Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow, 
And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep. 

Marvel not at thy life !— patience shall see 
The perfect work of wisdom to her given ; 

Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, 
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven. 



What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers 
All the sad night, when he is far away ? 

What recks he, how they mourn, through those 
dark hours, 
Till back again he leads the smiling day ? 

As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye, 
And blesses from its lowly seat, the god, 

In his great glory he goes through the sky, 
And recks not of the blessing from the sod. 

And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate ! 

That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee? 
That thy departing, leaves me desolate, 

That thy returning, brings back life to me ? 

I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe, 
That for thy sake daily disturbs my life; 

I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so, 
That all the love I can, is woe, and strife. 



I blame not thee, that I may ne'er impart 
The tempest, and the death, and the despair, 

That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart, 
And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there. 

Oh ! I have found my sin's sharp scourge in thee, 
For loving thee, as one should love but Heaven ; 

Therefore, oh, thou beloved ! I blame not thee, 
But by my anguish hope to be forgiven. 


The fountain of my life, which flowed so free, 
The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed 

Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song, 
Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee : 
How should they not ? from the shrunk, narrowbed, 

Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away 

Light, life, and motion, and along its way 
The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread, — 
Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest 

Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes 

The swollen waters once again gush forth, 
Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest. 



To Y , with a bowl of Bohemian glass. 

From rocky hills, where climbs the vine ; 
Where on his waves the wandering Rhine 
Sees imaged ruins, towns and towers, 
Bare mountain scalps, green forest bowers ; 
From that broad land of poetry, 
Wild legend, noble history, 
This token many a day bore I, 
To lay it at your feet, dear Y . 

Little the stupid bowl will tell 

Of all that on its way befell, 

Since from old Frankfort's free domain, 

Where smiling vineyards skirt the main, 

It took its way ; what sunsets red 

Their splendours o'er the mountains shed, 

How the blue Taunus' distant height 

Like hills of fire gave back the light, 

And how, on river, rock, and sky, 

The sun declined so tenderly, 


That o'er the scene white moonlight fell, 
Ere we had bid the day farewell. 
From Maintz, where many a warrior priest 
Was wont of yore to fight and feast, 
The broad stream bore us down its tide, 
Till where upon its steeper side, 
Grim Ehrenfels, with turrets brown, 
On Hatto's wave- worn tower looks down. 

Here did we rest, — my dearest Y , 

This bowl could all as well as I, 

Describe that scene, when in the deep, 

Still, middle night, all wrapped in sleep, 

The hamlet lone, the dark blue sky, 

The eddying river sweeping by, 

Lay 'neath the clear unclouded light 

Of the full moon : broad, brimming, bright, 

The glorious flood went rolling by 

Its world of waves, while silently 

The shaggy hills on either side, 

Watched like huge giants by the tide. 

From where the savage bishop's tower 

Obstructs the flood, a sullen roar 

Broke on the stillness of the night, 

And the rough waters, yeasty white, 

Foamed round that whirlpool dread and deep, 

Where still thy voice is heard to weep, 


Gisela ! maiden most unblest, 
Thou Jephtha's daughter of the West ! 
Who shall recall the shadowy train 
That, in the magic light, my brain 
Conjured upon the glassy wave, 
From castle, convent, crag and cave ? 
Down swept the Lord of Allemain, 
Broad-browed, deep-chested Charlemagne, 
And his fair child, who tottering bore 
Her lover o'er the treacherous floor 
Of new-fallen snow, that her small feet 
Alone might print that tell-tale sheet, 
Nor other trace show the stem guard, 
The nightly path of Eginhard. 
What waving plumes and banners passed, 
With trumpet clang and bugle blast, 
And on the night-w r ind faintly borne, 
Strains from that mighty hunting-horn, 
Which through these woods, in other days, 
Startled the echoes of the chase. 
On trooped the vision ; lord and dame, 
On fiery steed and palfrey tame, 
Pilgrims, with palms and cockle-shells, 
And motley fools, with cap and bells, 
Princes and Counties Palatine, 
Who ruled and revelled on the Rhine, 
m 3 


Abbot and monk, with many a torch, 
Came winding from each convent porch ; 
And holy maids from Nonnenwerth, 
In the pale moonlight all came forth ; 
Thy love, Roland, among the rest, 
Her meek hands folded on her breast, 
Her sad eyes turned to heaven, where thou 
Once more shalt hear love's early vow, — 
That vow, which led thee home again 
From Roncevalles' bloody plain, — 
That vow, that ne'er again was spoken 
Till death the nun's drear oath had broken. 
Down from each crumbling castle poured, 
Of ruthless robber-knights, the horde, 
Sweeping with clang and clamour by, 
Like storm-cloud rattling through the sky : 
Pageant so glorious ne'er, I ween, 
On lonely river bank was seen. 

So passed that night : but with the day 

The vision melted all away ; 

And wrapped in sullen mist and rain, 

The river bore us on again, 

With heavy hearts and tearful eyes, 

That answered well the weeping skies 


Of autumn, which now hung o'er all 
The scene their leaden, dropping pall, 
Beneath whose dark gray veils, once more 
We hailed our native Albion's shore, 
Our pilgrimage of pleasure o'er. 


Good night ! from music's softest spell 
Go to thy dreams : and in thy slumbers, 

Fairies, with magic harp and shell, 

Sing o'er to thee thy own sweet numbers. 

Good night ! from Hope's intense desire 
Go to thy dreams : and may to-morrow, 

Love with the sun returning, fire 

These evening mists of doubt and sorrow. 

Good night ! from hours of weary waking 
I'll to my dreams : still in my sleep 

To feel the spirit's restless aching, 

And ev'n with eyelids closed, to weep. 




Say thou not sadly, " never," and " no more," 
But from thy lips banish those falsest words ; 
"While life remains that which was thine before 
Again may be thine ; in Time's storehouse lie 
Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown 

Of joy, as well as sorrow : passing by, 
Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful 

Look thou on dear things, though they turn away, 
For thou and they, perchance, some future day 
Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return ; 
For its departure then make thou no mourn, 
But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell ; 
That which the past hath given the future gives 
as well. 


Though thou return unto the former things, 
Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have 



In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade 
Of tree, or meadow, but the same appears 
As when thou lovedst them in former years, 
They shall not seem the same ; the spirit brings 
Change from the inward, though the outward be 
E'en as it was, when thou didst weep to see 
It last, and spak'st that prophecy of pain, 
" Farewell ! I shall not look on ye again ?* 
And so thou never didst — no, though e'en now 
Thine eyes behold all they so loved of yore, 
The Thou that did behold them then, no more 
Lives in this world, it is another Thou. 


Like one who walketh in a plenteous land, 
By flowing waters, under shady trees, 
Through sunny meadows, where the summer 

Feed in the thyme and clover ; on each hand 
Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower 
The bounteous season hath poured out its dower : 
Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light, 
And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven j 
while he 



With a sad heart walks through this jubilee, 
Beholding how beyond this happy land, 
Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand, 
Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight, 
Where all things dwarf and dwindle, — so walk I, 
Through my rich, present life, to what beyond 
doth lie. 


Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn 
O'er joys that God hath for a season lent, 
Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent, 
Effeminate soul and base ! weakly to mourn. 
There lies no desert in the land of life, 
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem, 
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem 
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife. 
Haply no more, music, and mirth and love, 
And glorious things of old and younger art, 
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast; 

SONNET. 143 

But when these bright companions all depart, 
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast 
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing 


But to be still ! oh, but to cease awhile 
The panting breath and hurrying steps of life, 
The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the 

Of hourly being; the sharp biting file 
Of action, fretting on the tightened chain 
Of rough existence ; all that is not pain, 
But utter weariness ; oh ! to be free 
But for a while from conscious entity ! 
To shut the banging doors and windows wide, 
Of restless sense, and let the soul abide 
Darkly and stilly, for a little space, 
Gathering its strength up to pursue the race; 
Oh, Heavens ! to rest a moment, but to rest 
From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest ! 




A rt thou already weary of the way ? 

Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o'er : 
Get up, and lift thy burthen : lo, before 
Thy feet the road goes stretching far away. 
If thou already faint, who hast but come 
Through half thy pilgrimage, with fellows gay, 
Love, youth, and hope, under the rosy bloom 
And temperate airs, of early breaking day ; 
Look yonder, how the heavens stoop and gloom, 
There cease the trees to shade, the flowers to 

And the angels leave thee ; what wilt thou become 
Through yon drear stretch of dismal wandering, 
Lonely and dark ? I shall take courage, friend, 
For comes not every step more near the end ? 

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